遺失低語的守護者 A keeper of lost whispers- Jane

As she gazed at the scene before her, she felt something familiar stir within her chest. The colors of the leaves reminded her of an old sanctuary she had once cared for, where animals roamed freely, and stories whispered in the wind.

2024.10.04

珍曾經是一位遺失低語的守護者。她的雙手，雖然纖細但佈滿繭子，熟悉如何追尋時間的痕跡，隱藏在褪色影像與被遺忘名字的靜默摺痕中。某天，她站在一幅模糊的、帶著綠色調的記憶前。色彩柔和，彷彿籠罩在一層面紗中，淡然卻不全然消逝。葉叢背後隱約出現了一座結構，也許是一座房子，但其輪廓隨著歲月的流逝而模糊。

這不只是普通的地方——它是一扇門，能夠打開通往遺忘故事的門扉，那些從未被完全看見但曾經存在的人。當她凝視著眼前的景象時，胸口湧起一股熟悉的悸動。葉子的綠色讓她想起曾經照顧過的一座古老避難所，那裡動物自由漫步，故事隨風低語。

在這個角色中，珍成為了記憶與遺忘之間的橋樑。她開始調和這些色彩，將它們混合，就像她曾經為年邁的肖像畫上色一樣。但如今，她的媒介不僅是顏料——而是記憶。她將過去的碎片拼湊在一起，每一種色彩、每一種形狀，都是某個已經隨時間消逝的生命的線索。

隨著她的創作，一張模糊的面孔逐漸從畫面中浮現，那是一個曾經活過的人，曾坐在這些葉子陰影中的某個角落。珍明白，這時她的角色就是將這個人重新帶入光中。並不是要復活逝者，而是透過這些微妙、轉瞬即逝的色調，讓他們的故事得到被訴說的榮耀，即便這故事只是半被遺忘的影像。

Jane was once a keeper of lost whispers. Her fingers, delicate and calloused, knew how to trace the lines of time, hidden in the quiet folds of faded images and forgotten names. One day, she found herself standing in front of a blurred, green-tinted memory. The colors were soft, as though wrapped in a veil, muted yet not entirely absent. A faint structure loomed behind the foliage, a house perhaps, but its edges melted away with the passing years.

This was no ordinary place—it was a portal, one that could open the doors to forgotten stories, to those who were never fully seen but existed nonetheless. As she gazed at the scene before her, she felt something familiar stir within her chest. The colors of the leaves reminded her of an old sanctuary she had once cared for, where animals roamed freely, and stories whispered in the wind.

In this role, Jane became the bridge between what was remembered and what had been lost. She began to work the colors, blending them, much like she once did when she painted elderly portraits. But now, her medium was not just paint—it was memory. She pieced together fragments from the past, each color, each shape, a clue to a life that had long slipped into obscurity.

As she worked, the faint outline of a face began to emerge from the image, someone who had once lived, who had sat in the shadow of these leaves. Jane knew then that her role was to bring this person back into the light. Not to resurrect the dead, but to give their story the honor of being told, even if only through the delicate, shifting hues of a half-forgotten image.

My name is Jane.